


Hypothetical.  Dubious. Unimmortalized.

by Mira



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-12
Updated: 2008-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:50:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira/pseuds/Mira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John shrugged, but Rodney gently shook him. Glancing around them, lowering his voice, John murmured, "I dreamt you kissed me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hypothetical.  Dubious. Unimmortalized.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [McSmooch LiveJournal Community](http://community.livejournal.com/mcsmooch/)

John opened his eyes, uncomfortably aware that he had nearly dozed off in the heat of P2X-755's autumn afternoon, and saw Rodney studying him with a small smile. "What?"

Rodney nodded his head to his left, and John remembered he was supposed to be paying attention to the _heeshawp_ , His Holiness Ch-hoti, delivering the traditional and traditionally lengthy closing of negotiations. Teyla, John saw, was perspiring, strands of her hair drooping, but she managed to appear interested, fascinated, even, by the _heeshawp_ 's words.

 _And we know that the Ancients, having access to knowledge and wisdom beyond our ken, embrace the universal and expect we who follow so humbly in the stead to do so as well, and so we try. And we know that we fail to rise to the occasion more often than not, but we know we must try and try again. The Ancients retain their enigmatic relationship with those of us who cannot hope to rise, who can only pray for their assistance, and who open their hearts to the challenge they left us._

John tuned him out. He sounded like every keynote speaker at every conference and workshop he'd ever been forced to sit through. He took a deep breath as quietly as possible, and wiped the sweat from his nose.

The air was thick with humidity and the smell of some flowering plant, almost medicinal. The team, along with half the village and many who'd come from afar, sat crushed together on the dusty ground. The team had been been given rounded black cushions, like zafus. John liked the seats, but Rodney clearly did not, nor did Ronon, whose impossibly long legs were folded like half-closed knives. Teyla, of course, still sat quietly, her spine straight, but even she was sweating in the heat.

They sat beneath an enormous canopy, a pale green one -- the color of new life, one of the _heeshawp_ 's attendants had told them -- so at least they sat in thin shade. This was the ceremonial center, the _vishesha_ ; the villagers and pilgrims witnessing this ceremony had gathered on the flat plain called the plaited basket above the holy _foogoo_ , beside the carved menhir. Not a breath of wind stirred the few spiky trees, but in the distance, beyond the Ring of Seven Moons Mountain, thunderheads built, snowy and cool with their false promise of rain. John sighed again and wished he'd rolled up his sleeves. He felt heavy with heat, his hands thick; he could feel his pulse in his fingers. Every crease -- between his fingers, his elbows, his throat, under his arms, everywhere -- was sweating. His feet felt too big for his boots, swollen from the heat, and the small of his back itched where sweat pooled.

The _heeshawp_ droned on, monotonal, flat, slightly nasal. He sat on a low tilted bench, his feet tucked beneath it, and John stared, wondering why had hadn't fallen off. He was sweating as well, big rings under his arms and around his neck darkening his pale green robe, but at least he wasn't in layers of military clothing and a tacvest and ridiculous boots, as John was.

John yawned suddenly, surprising himself and embarrassing him, too. He dropped his head and stared determinedly at the cushion in front of him on which sat an elderly man. _He_ wasn't having trouble sitting still; _he_ wasn't yawning and sighing and fidgeting. John wiggled a bit to get more comfortable, hid another yawn, and widened his eyes, but it did no good. The heat lay like a hot damp blanket over him, and he felt his eyes closing.

The _heeshawp_ 's words wafted away, rising like the distant thunderheads, a tedious, meaningless murmur. John yawned again and gave up any pretence to paying attention. His head bobbed once, jerking him awake, so he settled on the zafu, wiggled his toes in his boots, rested his chin on his chest, and let go. There was no one to look at him, to judge him, to scorn him; just his team, as sleepy and dulled as he was, the _heeshawp_ lost in his waterfall of words, and the _heeshawp_ 's followers, equally lost. John yawned even harder, and suddenly slept.

He dreamt of cool corridors, silent, the air sweet and fresh with a tang of salt. He felt the gentle mist of the ocean brush against his face and stir his hair. He recognized his city: he stood far from the command tower, high above the water. The wind was fresh and sweet, the balcony railing cool under his hands. He felt a warm presence at his side and he knew without looking that it was Rodney.

They stood looking over the water; slow, even breakers rolled far beneath them, the distant sound slow exhalations of their world's breath. Tides from five moons: peace under the low gold moon and rest under the high silver. Eons they'd floated here and always the two of them, moving through the stargates, moving together. Here, though, was home and here, for a moment, was respite.

In the distance, John heard a dull murmur; though the words were indistinct, he recognized them as a recitation of values and a supplication: chanting a Pegasus plainsong, the sound rolling softly around him like the sound of the water far below, rhythmically breaking against the corniche of the western pier.

A sudden gust of wind, salty and wet, startled John, pushing against him and he nudged into Rodney's shoulder. He rested his hand against Rodney's waist, turning toward his warmth, his eyes watering from the cold wind. Rodney's familiar fond smile welcomed him, and without thought, he learned closer. As abrupt as the gust of wind, John knew what he wanted, and then he kissed Rodney on the mouth, not quickly, but a lingering thoughtful kiss that he hoped would speak for him.

Rodney kissed him back.

John jerked his head up, suddenly awake as the people around him patted the ground, their gesture of approbation. He was drenched with sweat and his mouth parched. Could he get up now? He wasn't sure his legs would support him, but as the others rose, talking cheerfully, Ronon seized John about the waist and pulled him up. "Old man," he said, patting John on the back, and then followed Teyla to meet with the _heeshawp_ , leaving John a bit light headed.

"You can sleep through anything," Rodney muttered to him enviously. "I want water. And a shower. Cold water, lukewarm water, any water, just water."

John gazed at him, remembering his dream or vision or reverie.

"What? What?"

John shook his head.

Rodney frowned, studying John. "Heat stroke?"

"No, Rodney. I'm fine. Just hot. Let's get some water." He turned but Rodney caught his arm.

"Seriously, what is it? I was watching you. You looked -- um. Absent."

John shrugged, but Rodney gently shook him. Glancing around them, lowering his voice, John murmured, "I dreamt you kissed me."

Rodney's gaze never wavered. After a few seconds, after forever, he nodded, and then, as abrupt as the breeze in Atlantis, smiled. "I dreamt we married," he said, pulling John nearer.

"Married."

"Mmhm."

"Well."

"My thoughts exactly," Rodney said, now grinning.

Teyla touched John's wrist, surprising both him and Rodney. "His Holiness wishes to speak with you," she said softly. Behind her, Ronon watched him, his face full of amusement.

"After that, can we go home?" Rodney asked.

Teyla smiled, first at Rodney and then at John. She reached up and gently pulled John's head toward her, so their brows rested against each other, and then, releasing him, said, "Yes. Yes, after that we can go home." She followed Ronon back to the _heeshawp_.

John looked at Rodney.

"Well, come on," Rodney said, but that same fond smile belied his irritated tone. "The _heeshawp_ is waiting, and I want to go home. With, uh, with you." Rodney looked around, his face suddenly guilty, and then, exactly as in John's vision, they kissed, thoughtfully, consideringly, and John, stepping away to follow Teyla and Ronon, looked back to see Rodney looking at him.

  


  


**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Atlantis](http://mirabile-dictu.slashcity.net/SGA/McSmooch_poem.html), by Wislawa Szymborska


End file.
